“W…water…”

  The guy on the floor woke up, his voice dry like sandpaper scraping a frying pan. He barely managed to get out one word—water.

  I handed him a glass. He gulped it down in one go, then stared at me for two seconds… before suddenly turning to Musashi. His eyes lit up like a kid seeing his favorite superhero.

  “W-was it you who knocked me out?” he asked.

  Musashi looked calm as ever. “Yes.”

  The guy actually looked thrilled. He punched his own thigh and exclaimed, “Amazing! I’ve trained in combat for ten years, and this is the first time someone took me down before I could react! What style do you practice? Military combatives? Aikido? Ex-military like me?!”

  Musashi glanced at me, looking slightly troubled. “It’s… Budo.”

  The "assassin's" eyes sparkled. “Are you taking disciples?”

  I couldn’t help jumping in. “Bro, calm down. Your face just kissed the floor so hard you nearly became a sticker. Mind telling us what you do for a living first?”

  “Right, right! I’m Scott. I’m the fight coach at Hammer Gym in town. Used to be in the military, retired now. I came here tonight because my buddy—Rick—asked me to bring a few trainees by the thrift store tomorrow morning,” he said, surprisingly straightforward.

  “I thought it was odd too. This place isn’t exactly hosting a Black Friday sale. But then tonight I saw a bunch of shady-looking folks heading this way, and my curiosity got the better of me. Figured I’d check it out myself, and then…”

  “And then you became the floor,” I finished for him.

  Holmes finally spoke, his voice calm. “This Rick… what kind of person is he?”

  Scott scratched the back of his head. “We served together. He stayed in town after retiring. Runs a bar, rides motorcycles, throws parties, sells a bit of weed here and there… but that’s not a big deal in Canada, right?”

  “The issue is, he’s been acting weird lately—mumbling, being all mysterious. I asked what was going on, but he wouldn’t say. Until yesterday, when he finally asked me to help him ‘make a show of force.’”

  “And then?” Holmes pressed.

  “That’s it.” Scott shrugged. “I asked what he was planning, but he said I didn’t need to do anything, just show up. He’s done this before—calls us in when he’s negotiating or dealing with rival gangs. Usually no real fighting involved.”

  Holmes nodded, glanced at Musashi, then at me. “I believe him. He’s not a dealer. Doesn’t have that… aura of chaos.”

  “Uh… thanks?” Scott said uncertainly.

  “Can you tell us where Rick is now?” Holmes asked.

  “He’s probably in the backroom behind his bar. He hangs out there most of the time. Doesn’t usually bring people home, so if something’s going on, that’s likely where it is.”

  This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  “Take us,” Holmes said, no hesitation.

  Fifteen minutes later, we were crouched in a patch of woods behind Rick’s place. I was already being eaten alive by mosquitoes. The lights inside were blazing, and we could hear the voices of maybe seven or eight people.

  “Is there a meeting going on?” I whispered.

  “More like a cartel convention,” Da Vinci shrugged, way too casually.

  “The problem is, we can’t hear a word they’re saying,” Holmes frowned.

  “Leave that to me.”

  A familiar, smooth voice came from behind. Tesla had somehow appeared without a sound, carrying a plastic bag filled with… my thrift shop’s rice cooker, radio, phone cords, and a broken vacuum cleaner.

  “You here to fix appliances?” I asked, terrified.

  “No. I’m here to eavesdrop.” Tesla smiled as if he’d just announced he’d had three cups of Earl Grey.

  What followed could only be described as a science-magic show. He dismantled every device with the speed and grace of a master chef slicing tofu. Parts flew, tools danced. Even Holmes paused to observe in fascination.

  Fifteen minutes later, a Frankenstein-like contraption emerged. It looked like a busted radio stuffed with wires from a dying spaceship.

  “Done. This little guy can pick up low-frequency vibrations within a 20-meter radius. Should be more than enough to catch their conversation,” Tesla said, as if presenting a new soup recipe.

  I stared at it. “Are you sure you’re not an alchemist pretending to be a scientist?”

  He gave me a long, meaningful smile.

  Night deepened.

  We huddled at the edge of the woods, headphones feeding us the sound from inside. First, small talk. Then the rustling of food. Then a long silence. Then curses.

  “This thing broken already?” I was about to complain when—

  “Who just parked outside?” someone inside said.

  We saw it too.

  A car had pulled up. The person who stepped out made our jaws drop—

  It was the town sheriff.

  The air froze.

  My brain buzzed like it’d been hit by lightning.

  In the headphones, the sound of chairs shifting. Then the sheriff’s voice, calm and commanding:

  “New York’s already on their way. They’ll be here in the morning. They want to pick up the shipment themselves.”

  Rick’s voice replied, casual, even smug: “They’ll be disappointed. The goods were shipped to Vancouver five days ago. LA offered too much—boss rerouted everything.”

  “What did you tell New York?” the sheriff asked, voice dropping into something colder.

  “I told them it was Jason’s fault,” Rick chuckled. “You know, that guy you’ve got watching the thrift shop? I told them he’s Chinese mob. Said he skimmed the shipment and hijacked the stash point.”

  Laughter filled the room. My palms were sweating like crazy.

  “They bought it?” the sheriff asked coldly.

  “Of course! That Jason guy looks just like Lei from the Chinese gang. Saw his photo on his resume and knew he’d be perfect.”

  “We’ve already arranged a little… visit for him in the morning.”

  “What’s your ‘early plan’?” the sheriff asked. His tone felt like a formality hiding an interrogation.

  Rick’s voice dropped low. “We’ll show up at six—half an hour before New York. Take him out. Leave no body if possible.”

  “And then?” The sheriff waited like an audience for the next act.

  “Stage the scene like a battle—blood packs, bullet casings, the works,” Rick said nonchalantly. “When New York arrives, we’ll say Jason tried to flee with the goods, we stopped him, but it was too late—Chinese mob hit hard, took the stuff and vanished.”

  “What about Jason?” the sheriff asked.

  “Dead. Obviously dead.” Rick laughed. “We’ll say we already avenged them. Now it’s their mess to chase down.”

  “Where to?”

  “Toronto. We’ll say it’s the Chinese mob’s HQ. Didn’t you say we should put some heat on that city?”

  For the first time, the sheriff laughed. The sound that came through the headphones wasn’t human. It was like an animal, belching satisfaction after a fresh kill.

  “Well done,” he said. “Just remember—this was my plan. You’re just the hands. If anything goes wrong, I take the fall. So don’t screw it up.”

  “Of course,” Rick said quickly. “We wouldn’t dare make you clean up after us.”

  “One more thing,” the sheriff suddenly said, voice dropping like metal in a gun chamber.

  “If Jason isn’t dead… you know the rules.”

  Rick’s laughter vanished. “He’ll be dead. Guaranteed.”

  Footsteps. A door slammed.

  We crouched in the woods, none of us speaking. Only the wind whispered through the leaves, slicing past our ears like knives.

  My throat tightened. I whispered:

  “So… I really look like a gangster?”